“Okay . . . How’s your vacation going?”
“It’s been fine until now, but my uncle Nisse’s cousin Harald Fäldt called a few hours ago and asked me to come over to Herremark, where he and his wife run the guesthouse.”
She tried to explain the situation as clearly and concisely as possible. When she said that she was sure the victim was Milo Stavic, she heard a sharp intake of breath from the superintendent, but he didn’t interrupt her. She told him about the two bullet wounds and the pistol carefully placed beneath the folded hands.
“It has to be a homicide,” Göran agreed.
When she revealed that her colleague at the scene was so suspicious of her that he’d actually drawn his gun on her, Göran burst out laughing.
“I guess he didn’t realize how dangerous that could be for him,” he said.
The young officer had grasped that Embla and the man she was talking to really were detectives, but the superintendent’s comment left him totally bewildered. Embla had no intention of enlightening him. The fact was that her former colleagues with VGM, Göran and Detective Inspector Hampus Stahre, used to tease her and call her their pit bull, particularly in situations where her temper gained the upper hand.
Before she could come up with a cutting response, Göran continued, “That’s remarkable, given what you’ve told me about Milo Stavic.”
Embla involuntarily took a deep, ragged breath. With a huge effort, she managed not to look at either the dead man or the living man in the room, instead focusing her attention on a small picture on the wall of a brightly colored bird perched on a branch laden with apple blossoms. Or some other kind of blossoms.
“It was a shock when I recognized him,” she admitted, fighting to keep her voice steady.
“I can understand that. And you’re absolutely certain it’s Stavic?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. In that case I’ll come up and take a look. I’m in Trollhättan at the moment, but I was intending to go home anyway. Paula’s ex-husband is going to a fiftieth birthday party, so she’s having the kids over here tonight.”
“Thanks—that makes me feel so much better!”
“I’ll call the Dalsland area chief of police and outline the situation, then I’ll send some of my CSIs. They can get to work straightaway,” Göran added.
“And I’ll stay here and secure the cottage.”
Embla felt as if a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders, and she caught herself smiling when the call was over.
A discreet cough behind her made her jump. She’d forgotten about the uniformed officer.
“There’s no need for you to hang around, but give me your name before you leave,” she said.
He immediately straightened his shoulders and gave her a perfect salute. “Inspector Olle Tillman, Åmål police.”
“Åmål? So what are you doing here?”
“Ours is the only station that’s manned on weekends.”
“So you were called out to the stabbing.”
“Yes—how do you know about that?”
“Harald—the relative who contacted me—told me the Åmål police couldn’t get here right away.”
She jerked her head in the direction of the bed. Olle Tillman automatically glanced at the dead man, but quickly looked away.
“There are only five of us on duty,” he said, “but two detectives from Trollhättan are coming over later. My boss thought it would be a good idea if I checked out the situation. And what did I find? A total stranger in the same room as the body. She claims to be a cop, but can’t provide any ID. Clearly a person of interest.”
This was obviously meant as an explanation and an apology for drawing his gun.
“So you’ve been on duty all night?” Embla said, trying to sound a little more friendly.
“Yes. My shift started at six yesterday evening.”
Which meant he’d been working for almost sixteen hours.
“I really think you ought to go home and—”
“I’m not going to get any sleep today. We tried to question a number of witnesses during the night, but we didn’t get very far. Most of them were drunk and very shaken up, so we’ll have to try again today. And tomorrow and the next day.”
“How many witnesses are involved?”
The answer came with no hesitation. “Sixty-two.”
“That’s going to take some time,” Embla said.
“Yes, but the organizers have given me a list of those who were at the party, which helps. We’ll divide up the names among us, and, as I said, we’re expecting two detectives from Trollhättan.”
Embla looked around the room. “Listen, I think we’d better get out of here before the CSIs arrive. They won’t be happy when they find out we’ve contaminated the crime scene. We’ll have to give a DNA sample, and they’ll want to take our footprints. Well, yours, anyway.”
She gave his size forty-six boots a meaningful glance. Olle Tillman didn’t seem too concerned. It occurred to Embla that Harald might also have gone into the bedroom; she hadn’t asked him. Hopefully he hadn’t crossed the threshold after seeing the bloodbath in the bed.
The windows were almost covered by deep snowdrifts. The wind was howling around the cottage, rattling the panes.
“We can’t go outside,” Olle pointed out.
“No. We’ll go and sit at the kitchen table and wait for Göran and the CSIs.”
“Okay.”
He gave her a grateful look. It had been a long shift. They sat down and undid their jackets; it was pretty warm in spite of the weather outside. Olle took off his cap. His fair hair was unusually long; most male police officers either shaved their heads or had very short hair, partly because it was easy to look after, and partly because it doesn’t give an attacker anything to grab. On the other hand, many of Embla’s coworkers had started cultivating impressive beards, which carried the same risk. She thought Olle was sporting three-day stubble rather than the beginnings of a beard.
He hid a yawn behind one hand and rubbed his eyes with the other. Maybe tiredness was the main reason why he was in no hurry to rejoin his team.
“It’ll be a while before Göran gets here,” Embla said. “Tell me about the boy who was murdered—what happened?”
Olle blinked several times before he began to talk.
“The local indoor bandy team, Herremarks IBK, had arranged a party to celebrate the club’s twentieth anniversary. We got the call about a stabbing at twelve-forty.”